Journal of Arcaia Giralvel - return to College of Winterhold if found!

19th Hearthfire, 4E 201

What a week! I finally find myself with a quiet moment to collect my thoughts, in the corner of a drafty tavern that smells of mint and bonemeal (Apparently these Nords use the mixture to fend off the stench of death. I for one think it just makes it worse.) But I didn't start this journal to complain about the customs of this strange land - although I sometimes think I should have.

Anyways, where to begin? I arrived in Riften without much incident, and went directly to seek an audience with the Jarl regarding Mother's old estate and holdings. While I thought nothing of it at the time, I clearly should have been more guarded in my speech around her counselor, Maven - apparently she knows of my family and is no great friend of ours. As I went about the town on an evening stroll while awaiting word from the Jarl on my estate, I found a man in filthy rags lying in the street. I paid him little mind - until a pair of guardsmen stepped out from an alley and accused me of murdering him! I instantly realized the error I had made and sprinted for the docks, not even bothering to draw my sword. I was able to lose them for a moment, and ducked into the nearby shop to see if I could perhaps sneak out through its back door. The shopkeep, a large Nord with tired eyes, gave me a knowing look and asked if I had fallen afoul of the Thieves' Guild. I supposed I had, at that, and told him as much. He gave me a tent and supplies to last a few days, then hustled me out the back as the clanking footsteps of the guards approached his store.

I roughed it for a day or two, sleeping lightly and near dawn so as not to be eaten by a sabre cat. I finally chanced upon a pocket of civilization - a legion camp situated in a small grove of stones. They instantly recognized me as a citizen of the Empire and offered me sanctuary as long as I needed. After warming up with some good Cyrodiilic brandy and drying my socks, I struck up conversation with one of the men who was on watch. He explained their situation at the moment was rather inconvenient - a camp of brigands just over the rise was in a half-open conflict with theirs, and that while they could fend them off easily enough, the Legate simply wouldn't give permission to go in force to deal with them. After pondering a moment, I offered to scout out this camp and see what could be done in exchange for supplies and an escort to Helgen. The soldier readily agreed, and so early the next morning I crept over to the nearby ruin to take a look. To my great amusement, the bandit horde was a single skinny archer - presumably the rest had left in search of softer prey. She spotted me but I was faster. Upon returning to the camp, I was toasted, given a lovely woolen cloak of Legion make and a bag full of sandwiches, and sent on my way with one of the runners as a guide.

Unfortunately, Helgen was missing. Not at all sure what's going on there. So now I'm in Falkreath, drinking off a hangover, out of ideas and out of coin. There's nothing else for it - I suppose I'll have to use Mother's sword and earn my living the old fashioned way. I've heard there's no end of demand for sword-arms in the Reach - guess I'll sell this cloak and see if it's enough for a carriage ride to the old Dwemer city of Markarth.

25th Hearthfire, 4E 201

I arrived early to a quiet morning, muffled steps and softly crackling braziers echoing on the cold stone. I waited a few minutes as the market opened - but before I could even buy a sausage some laborer ran up and butchered the woman waiting next to me. As I already had gotten blood on my only set of robes, I promptly cooked him in a gout of fire and headed for the local tavern for a bath - only to be informed that they had none. I managed to put aside my shock long enough to ask if the town creek ran from further up the mountain, and was informed that it sprang forth in the keep, a ways up the mountain. I barely managed to find this spring before the blood crusted on my robes - although I apparently was not the only one with the same idea that day. The court mage and his nephew, a pair of altmer, were amusedly watching from just down the stream. Well, it wasn't my first time in a public bath, so I chatted them up a bit. As it turned out, they were in dire need of a sellsword to clear out a nearby digsite of some oversized vermin. I showed them Mother's sword and they agreed quite genially to have the Jarl's blacksmith give it a once-over if I were successful.

Naturally, they failed to mention that by vermin they meant spiders and by oversized they meant positively enormous. Typical Altmer. I made it out, just barely, but my boots weren't so lucky. The blacksmith, an Orc formerly of the legion, must have laughed for a minute straight when I told him of the mages' little joke. Still, he did me right, and Mother's sword looks as good as new. He also offered to fit me for a set of plate that a customer had failed to collect - he said she was around my size, luckily. He just needed the blood of a Daedra squeezed fresh from its heart to finish the tempering... I'm still not sure if he was joking but I agreed regardless. It simply wouldn't do to cut it as close as I had been with just the clothes on my back.

As I stepped out of the keep around midday, bare feet slapping on the lukewarm white stone, I chanced upon a Saxhleel sitting morosely in the street, a bag full of shoes at his side. Imagine my surprise when he offered me the finest boots I'd yet laid eyes on, if only I were able to convince the tradehouse's proprietor to set him up with a stall. So, naturally, I'm in the basement of the tradehouse picking Skeever teeth out of my feet because I stupidly agreed to help out around the place, and of course this shithole needed an exterminator as well. Whatever happened to the Fighter's guild? I thought that was a perfectly sensible solution to these kinds of things. Honestly.

29th Hearthfire, 4E 201

The tradehouse's owner was a strange fellow, honest enough for a merchant but strangely superstitious. He agreed to put up the lizard in exchange for one more favor (besides the rat business.) I'm now in Solitude drinking at the Skeever (awful name. I swear, everything in skyrim circles back to these creatures!) and following up on some magical artifact he absolutely needed in order to align his... something or other. I really wasn't listening when he explained, but he paid a moderate advance that included a bodyguard hired from the local tavern and that Daedra heart I needed. And I will say, those were solid investments - this coat of plate is quite fine. A light silvered alloy, Nordic in design, but well practical and warm enough even for these Northern winds. Of course, my old threadbare traveling gloves and a borrowed pair of slippers hardly complete the look, but it is what it is.

The innkeep here - a corpulent but funny Imperial - seemed to have a lead on the artifact I was seeking. Said some eccentric scholar had passed through a few weeks ago looking to hire on guards and experts on Nordic ruins and traps. The flyer posted on the wall mentioned a campsite along the northern shore, and while the date had long passed the area seemed right. One more round and we'll head directly for the camp.

3rd Frostfall, 4E 201

Well, we found it. Strangely, the guard was just a common bandit with orders to attack intruders. I figure there's something else afoot here, but it will have to wait - an unholy blizzard sprang up out of nowhere and shows no signs of abating. I would be surprised if we get out of this camp before the end of the week. At least these bandits left plenty of food and ale.

7th Frostfall, 4E 201

I've left my bodyguard to watch the camp - hardly needed him lumbering about in my way in these tight passageways barrows tend to have. Upon arriving to the island, rotting mead and death caught my nose - a distinct yet altogether too common fragrance. A corpse lay inside, poisoned, at the top of a deep and howling stairwell - clutching an unsent letter to a lover. What little I could make out (and translate from bandit-ese) indicated the guards this scholar had hired on were largely sacrificial, or at least expendable - unsure which. After burning the corpse (outside) and burning some incense, as well as leaving some broken glass around the entrances, I've made this cave habitable enough to spend the night. I'll delve further in the morning.

8th Frostfall, 4E 201

Awful dreams. A rich and melodic voice slithered around in my mind tugging on my thoughts and plucking them like lute-strings - but I couldn't make out its words. I think I'll have a drink before heading in... need to soothe the nerves.

Evening: By Azura, what a day! I came to an antechamber late in the afternoon (I think, can't tell down here) with a young girl on an altar with half her throat torn out. I never studied Restoration, mother didn't care for it much, and the potion I poured into her mouth came gushing out of her neck. I did my best to cauterize the major arteries with some flame, and went in search of something useful. Luckily, one of the researchers had stashed a healing staff nearby, and I was able to fix most of the damage. She still couldn't speak - whether from trauma or the damage I couldn't tell. I gave her my cloak, hood, and shoes, and sent her on her way back to the camp. The Nord can take care of her while I figure out what's going on here.

9th Frostfall, 4E 201

I hardly dare put this to paper, but the voice came again today - after I woke. I immediately cast a spell to stop the movement of air, to stop the sound - it did nothing. I guess I just have to listen and try and make out the words. What worries me is that I won't have to... I can already feel their intent. She wants me to go deeper.

Evening: Vorstag caught up to me today just as I was about to be decapitated by some sort of brine-soaked Draugr. I've seldom been happier to see anyone. Apparently after getting the girl to a tavern, he figured I had bitten off more than I could chew down here - and he was right. He even brought my shoes back... I guess these Nords can be alright sometimes. We're making good progress - although, I haven't mentioned the voices yet. I don't think he hears them. Perhaps he lacks the ears to.

10th Frostfall, 4E 201

Another day of hacking through corpses and untangling savage, arcane traps and glyphs. My mind aches of the listening - but the voice is oddly helpful, and oddly calming. I can hear it better with my helmet on. Better still if I fold my ears under the steel.

Behind one of the warded doors was the scholar and his guards. I believe he was mad, although he mentioned hearing the voice, which makes me think he must not have been. I don't remember who swung first, but we killed all of them. I don't remember why, either.

12th Frostfall, 4E 201

Can think a little more clearly today. The voice is quiet. The stones and the walls, naturally, have begun whispering in its stead. They tell me tales of moonlight and ancient, wild magic, and tales of steel and fire. I am beginning to worry for Vorstag - he insists he can hear neither. He watches me as I sleep. Why does he watch me and not the darkened doorways and alcoves of our surroundings?

13th Frostfall, 4E 201

I understand now. The Gate has been opened, and the voice rings out clearly from within, striking the ears and eyes of my mind like a hammer to the anvil. She is waiting for me. Just a little further.

21st Frostfall, 4E 201

I awoke this morning to Corpulus dragging me out of bed, shouting something about late fees and freeloading elves. I calmed him down and got him to tell me how I got here - apparently I was fished out of the water three days ago near the Lighthouse clutching a sword, a strange black box, and a gem the size of a man's fist. I have the girl I rescued to thank for it - she had been watching the shoreline for me every day since she was well enough to leave the tavern.

I asked him about Vorstag and he just gave me a blank look. I... I'm not sure what happened down there. My memories end before my last entry. I hope he fell in battle, as any Nord dreams of doing. But I suspect, strongly, that he didn't. The voice is gone from my mind but a black string of guilt worms and pulls around inside of it all the same. The weight of the treasure I came back with does little to assuage it.

At least this box seems to be what the merchant was looking for. Guess that means I'll be getting those boots after all.

Edit

Pub: 09 Oct 2021 08:01 UTC

Edit: 11 Oct 2021 11:26 UTC

Views: 385